Misplaced Acolytes
by randomsomeone
Summary: They’re each on their own missions, in a way. Kabuto, Shizune, a little sadistic flirtation. Oneshot.


This was done for a wishlist challenge. I'm not especially familiar with these characters, so it was a little bit of a learning experience.

* * *

He'd gone out to get his mind off of the way things were going. Disgruntled with Orochimaru's growing obsession and with the newest addition's attitude, all Kabuto'd wanted was a few hours to himself. Habit would be calming, so he decided to get some food, maybe enjoy some innocuous flirting with the girl behind the stall's counter. The engagement was a dance, a harmless one—him leaning in, her leaning back; the down-turned eyes, the intrigued glances she shot him through her eyelashes . . .

And in the blink of an eye, she had him by the throat. Shocked, Kabuto instinctively tried to wrench away—only to find that he couldn't move.

"I'm in your nervous system," she said, and her hand squeezed amusedly against his skin. "You can fight all you want. I tested this technique against every shinobi who had the time for me. You won't be able to do anything unless I let you." Her smile faded, leaving the cool, calculating look that eventually ingrained itself in every trained killer. "This also means I can shut off your breathing and let you die right here."

Still in shock at the ease of his capture, at how his indiscretion may have just undone all of Orochimaru's plans, he only managed one word. "Who—"

Her eyes widened, miming shock. "Don't you remember me?"

The possibilities flitted past: that this was a grudge, that they'd been tailing him for a long time to get this close—and all the while, he tried to match her features up to those of anyone he could've known, killed, fought, healed . . .

Then her chakra shifted, and the feelings returned: a pain in his hand from helping Orochimaru summon Manda, the scent of his own blood and the stench of swamp water from Jiraiya's technique—and he knew. Such a detailed understanding of the way his body and senses worked—and the ways to manipulate them—only meant one thing. Medic-nin. With that thought came a recollection of her, years before . . . at the side of the current Hokage. "Yeah. I remember you."

"So you have an idea of what this is about." She smiled, remarkably cheery for someone who'd just threatened his life. He remembered her angry, though, quick to take offense. Had it been time that'd calmed her, or experience?

"My master sent me," she continued. "She wants you to be sure that we're not far behind, that it'd be nothing for us to catch up to you whenever we want."

The old woman was lying; he knew this because no one would hover and threaten a set of criminals if they were capable of actually _stopping_ them.

But the kunoichi in front of him had stopped him.

Maybe he and Orochimaru had underestimated them.

"Stop thinking so hard," she chided. "If I try to make you focus on me, the strain on your eyes will give you the worst headache you've ever known."

There was nothing wrong with humoring a captor. He blinked at her as disinterestedly as possible, telling himself to concentrate on how much of a mess her hair was instead of on his predicament. "And now what?"

She shrugged. "She didn't say I had to let you go after delivering this message."

"If you kill me, you just wasted your time giving me a message."

"I never said I'd kill you."

"So she sent you just to try to give me pause?"

"Well, you're paused now." Her hand shifted. "You've been seen healing people left for dead on the battlefield. I want to know why."

"Why's it concern you?"

"You're supposed to be the bad guy."

He replied without blinking. "There are no bad guys."

"You killed our ANBU, are helping shelter a renegade Leaf shinobi, aided and abetted a known S-ranked criminal—this doesn't put you in with the good guys."

He had his reasons, but wasn't about to tell her that.

"You don't have to explain it all," she said persuasively. "But if you do, I might understand."

So the technique let her keep track of how his emotions fluctuated. Kabuto fought to maintain his equilibrium—but it was hard to concentrate on keeping his emotions in check when it suddenly felt like she was tracking the intricate workings of his bare nerves with the tips of her nails.

"Why the ANBU?" Shizune asked. "Is it because they don't have faces, that it's impersonal enough? Or is it something more?"

No, nothing he'd tell her. Nothing about how a small child on a battlefield had seen his parents cut down by shinobi in animal masks. Nothing about how those masks had sent him into paroxysms of terror for weeks afterwards, how they were the only thing to jolt him out of his depression until the jounin he came to know as Orochimaru took him in with the promise that one day, they would learn how to cheat death.

"Hmm . . ." she murmured. "So there is something more."

"Whatever you want to think," he said; then mentally kicked himself. Talking to her was stupid—especially when he was mentally off-balanced. He looked up at her and schooled his features to impassiveness. "Go ahead, kill me. You won't learn anything."

She shrugged. "I've already learned enough. There's something in there, something that still bothers you. It still makes you human."

Sympathy wasn't something he'd been expecting.

"You won't last as a ninja," he told her. "In your world, the cat catches the mouse only for conversation."

"I've made it this far."

"Your master would be proud."

"Maybe. Tsunade-sama has a thing for picking up and encouraging the hopeless cases," she said.

Well, wasn't that what they both were? He had no illusions about his mental state before Orochimaru's intervention; he'd been a child, refusing to eat, to speak . . . and then, one day, the strange jounin had sat down to talk to him. He could still feel the cool, clammy hand against his cheek, still hear the quiet, sibilant voice whispering in his ear: _"I promise you revenge. I promise that if you stay with me, learn with me . . . that I **will** develop a technique able to bring them back."_

It wasn't until years after the fact that he realized Orochimaru couldn't conjure someone out of thin air, and that his parents' remains were beyond any retrieval. But by then the ties of his loyalty were knotted snugly in place.

So Orochimaru had got a medic with a grudge against ANBU and the compulsion to heal things. And Kabuto'd gotten . . .

She was still there. Watching. Testing. _Judging._ But it was her hand against his skin; not cool but warm, dry, and unnaturally smooth enough that she had to have sanded off all calluses that would divulge her ninja training

If he held his emotions in check, didn't blink, didn't alter his breathing, she wouldn't be able to read anything off of him. Then it'd just be the two of them there, waiting for someone to walk up to the counter and free him; misplaced acolytes, sharing a moment together after their masters had found newer, more promising talent.

Maybe he knew why she'd come out alone after all. The exact reason may have been different from his own, but the sentiment . . . With the proximity of her master's new student, he might understand her reasons—and her reasons for keeping him alive, as a sort of kindred spirit.

Strange, that she would even think to violate the standards of engagement in this way.

"You're not too bad-looking," she said, and smiled. Her free hand patted his cheek warmly; an invisible finger ran down his stomach. "It's too bad you're on the wrong side."

"I'm on the side that matters."

"Oh?" She cocked her head, blinking at him as if he'd said something interesting.

"My own."

"Of course."

"And once I am free from here . . ."

"I've heard it a hundred times from a hundred different voices. Don't waste your breath."

His lungs tightened warningly, but he continued. "You can't hide forever."

"Maybe." She straightened, her chin lifting. "I'm going to mess up your chakra pathways and energy lines. It's nothing personal and nothing permanent—just enough to be sure you don't catch up too soon."

His chakra tangled and knotted upon itself, his senses blurred, his hands suddenly weren't sure if they had fingers or toes; and as his muscles seized and cramped, she grinned in his face. "Until later."

Then she was gone, and he had to escape.

If she was still close, he could finish things—or better yet, he could fix himself before anything else came along; before she changed her mind, took his threat seriously, and decided to finish him first.

Desperately, he tried to unravel what she'd done. Had she blocked anything vital? No. He could . . .

The cramps in his legs dissipated to the faintest memory, leaving only residual tenseness behind. His senses steadied, his hands moved of his own accord against the stall's counter. Now doubly worried, Kabuto scanned himself. Was there anything she'd done, anything he'd missed that would destroy him if he made the wrong move?

No.

Normal. He sat up in disbelief. Everything was normal. She hadn't done _anything_—she'd just made him feel like she had.

He lurched to his feet, spun around—and found her standing no more than ten feet behind him. "I never liked hiding."

If they fought there, they'd destroy something, cause a scene, shatter any cover he had. He told himself that the possibilities were the only thing to give him pause.

She watched him for another few seconds, shamelessly keeping her gaze locked with his; then, as he made no move towards her, she smiled. "My name's Shizune. Remember it. For later."

"I will."

With another smile, she casually turned and walked away, leaving him unsure of when—or if—he wanted "later" to come.


End file.
